Faultlines
by pekuxumi
Summary: Lifelines sequel. Back at home, Dick has to deal with the new changes in his life. Surviving was tough, but living turns out to be the real challenge. No slash, rated for violence and language. Pre-N52ish, AUish. Follows Lifelines and interline.
1. Prologue

_Hey there! Here's finally the sequel I promised you so long ago! This piece is the third and final installation of what I call the 'lines- Universe. I'm very sorry that it took longer again, but this time my lateness has a really good reason: the most talented Xenitha has offered to write an 'epilogue' to the second installment! Check it out! The series' order now is:_

_Lifelines -interline- ('interline: Spotted Lines' by Xenitha) - and Faultlines._

_I highly recommend reading the prequels first, for there will by_ many_ allusions to Lifelines and interline. If you don't want to read them but follow this piece, drop me a line and I tell you everything you need to know!_

_This work is betaed by Callypse again. If you see any mistakes, you can be sure that I overlooked one of her corrections. Mea culpa, always._

* * *

**FAULTLINES**

Prologue

_-two weeks later-_

"Clark and Wallace's numbers are by the counter and in the bat computer."

"I know, Master Bruce."

"Harper's too, if there is a more... psychological emergency."

"I am not sure Mister Harper will dare to come close to the young Master again after your last meeting." Alfred's tone was light, and that irritated Bruce. This was an important matter.

"We might be gone for _days_, Alfred. This is serious!"

Alfred didn't bother answering, but the look he sent Bruce was explanation enough. _Of course_ he took this matter seriously. Bruce sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down. He had the worrisome suspicion that he was overreacting again, a tendency he had grown used to since Dick's hospitalisation months ago, which he tried to get rid of without success.

"You will still be in touch, Master Bruce, and I may remind you that Dick has been progressing well lately."

Yes, he had. Since the chicken pox he contracted from Lian or her teddy had vanished without any consequences, Dick was doing fine. He was still sleeping most of the time and had unannounced bouts of fever, but no serious infection had come up and his physiotherapy was going well. When Bruce told him about the covert operation he was planning with Tim and Damian, Dick assured him he would be fine alone with Alfred.

Still, Bruce didn't like leaving for a longer time. The last fever bout had left Dick too exhausted to walk up the stairs into his room, and Bruce had to carry him – true, Dick had had enough energy to struggle and complain all the way up, and Bruce heavily suspected that he simply didn't want to walk up the stairs... But even if that were true, it had other complications he didn't like any better; a Richard Grayson who didn't _want_ to move was more worrisome than a Richard Grayson who _couldn't_ move.

"Don't let him down into the cave," he advised Alfred therefore, even though he knew that that rule was set in stone and the butler would never forget it. "He won't make it upstairs again."

"Yes, Master Bruce."

"And don't let him outside. It's still too cold and -"

"- and he's not yet acclimated. Yes, Master Bruce."

"Woah, is there also an emergency plan for alien abduction?"

Bruce and Alfred turned around to see Dick standing in the kitchen threshold, a sarcastic smile on his lips and raised eyebrows. It was an expression he was carrying a lot these days, and Bruce didn't like it one bit. When Dick saw that he wouldn't get an answer, he walked into the room, past Bruce.

"Seriously, I worry about that. Now that all I can do is flutter my eyelashes..."

"You're not supposed to be up," Bruce interrupted him, not in the mood for more of Dick's newly adopted cynicism.

Dick was only dressed in his PJs, he noticed with displeasure, not even wrapped in a blanket. He looked fine, though, no sudden pallor or fever-induced flush, and the circles under his eyes had receded over the weeks.

"I'm just putting my meds back into the fridge. Relax, Bruce." As to prove a point, Dick rattled with the orange pill bottle Bruce hadn't seen earlier and opened the fridge. "They're not supposed to be out for long."

"You could have called."

Alfred looked guiltily at Bruce. "I should have thought of them. My apologies."

Dick had closed the fridge and leaned against it with his back, arms crossed as he observed the scene in front of him. He rolled his eyes when he picked up the ongoing conversation Bruce and Alfred were having via glances and glares. "And I'm sure you would have thought of it if Bruce hadn't distracted you. You need to calm down, both of you. It's fine. I'm fine!"

As if to state his opinion to that fact, Alfred pushed one of the kitchen chairs into Dick's direction. With an exasperated sigh, the young man sat down. "Happy?" he asked gloomily.

"You shouldn't be up," Bruce scolded, reaching over the table to press his hands against his son's forehead to check his temperature.

Dick leaned back, evading. "Stop doing that, it's annoying."

"As soon as you manage one whole week without a fever attack." Alfred had sneaked up behind him and quickly brushed his hands over Dick's brow, who wasn't quick enough to slap it away.

They got another roll of the eyes for that. Bruce had stopped counting how often that happened a day after he tried to talk with Dick about last week. His initial purpose was to gently show Dick how edgy he was being, but even if Dick had gotten the hint, nothing had changed.

Bruce knew that things were hard for his son. Now at home, there weren't nurses or urinary bags, wheelchairs or emergency buttons to help him master the days. Even though Dick had always hated being dependent, he had broadly accepted it in the hospital, realizing that he simply couldn't do without them. At the Manor, there were still people around him, helping and assisting, but that was a different thing; Dick was a grown man and didn't want to depend on Alfred or on his little brothers to get him to the bathroom. Bruce could relate, really. He himself was annoyed when people kept asking him if he was all right after an injury – Dick was getting the short end of the full-blown mother hen mode of not only Alfred and Bruce, but also of Babs, Jason (via phone), Tim and Damian (in his own, special way). He also understood how annoying it must be when people constantly tried to touch your forehead. Between Alfred and Bruce, it had become almost a habit to first check temperature before choosing how to proceed.

For Dick, the situation was downright frustrating – that was to be expected and didn't worry Bruce so much as Dick's way of expressing this frustration. There were basically two moods prevalent in Dick's behaviour, depending on how he felt: when he wasn't feeling good – as in extremely sick, tired, weak or depressed, since 'feeling good' was a phrase that lead to confusion –, he was sad and sullen, passive and generally avoided moving at all. That was the mood Bruce and the family could relate with, since it was understandable, and it was a lot better than the cynicism Dick was sporting when he was feeling 'better'.

When he had recovered from the chicken pox and was allowed and able to leave his room again, Dick had been confronted with how much things had changed. It was one thing to be weak in a hospital room, and another to be weak and dependent in surroundings that are familiar and connected to a certain lifestyle – the Manor had always been a place for Batman, vigilantism or swinging from the chandelier.

Dick's illness had changed the situation and Dick himself. Bruce was only beginning to see the little differences that in a whole pointed to a character development he didn't know what to think of. Some changes were understandable: Every time Dick was combing his new curls, he absent-mindedly shook the comb afterwards as if to get rid of loose hair, a sign that he still hadn't completely worked through not being sick any more. It explained why he avoided food, especially the heavy food he should be eating now to get some strength back. Alfred tried not to be too hard on him, but he and Bruce had begun to notice other changes as well, changes that seemed more permanent.

Dick got nauseous when he smelled patchouli*, so bad that he had to throw up. He had developed a deadly cynicism when confronted with his lack of energy, and the only family member who could deal with this so unfitting sort of humour for Dick was Alfred with a heavy dose of British sarcasm. Just last week they had found out that Dick was now apparently allergic to hazelnuts, which required a new change in Dick's medical file, right next to his changed blood group. He didn't eat cereal anymore, announcing that the thought alone made him sick to the stomach.

_Dick_ didn't like _cereal_ anymore.

That was wrong on so many levels, Bruce didn't even know where to begin, and he feared that those changes were just the tip of the iceberg. Nonetheless, it was necessary to confront Dick with what had to be done. He was still sick, weak, and if he collapsed somewhere in the Manor after walking off on his own, it would only throw him back again.

"Seriously Dick, you're in no condition to be walking around unsupervised," Bruce said therefore, bringing the topic up for the third time but swallowing down the '_and you wouldn't even get out of bed yesterday_' he wanted to add.

Dick, still sitting opposite of him and glaring at Alfred sulkily, finally answered. "If I'm allowed to walk to the bathroom alone, I can also walk to the kitchen."

"You're having enough trouble walking to the bathroom."

"Yeah, but today's a good day," Dick shrugged carelessly. "Aren't _you_ always trying to make me move?"

Well, he had a point with that. Even though Bruce had an easier time with the exhausted, non-cynical Dick, he was still trying to get him to do anything but watching TV. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but a passive I'm-an-acrobat-Dick was freaking him out.

"You should be wearing a sweater or something."

"It's fine."

"You're shivering."

"It's cold in here!"

It wasn't. Actually it was a very nice, lukewarm day of spring. Bruce raised a skeptical eyebrow and motioned at the window, through which warm rays of sun were falling.

"I was just standing in front of the fridge?" Visibly, Dick tried so hard not to roll his eyes, it was making them both smile a little bit. "The medication makes me tremble? Are you going to accept anything else but your opinion?"

"No," Bruce answered and was glad for the slight break in tension. "Though the trembling was a good one. Haven't heard that one before."

"I'm bored over there. There's just crap on the TV and I'll get a headache when I try to read."

Bruce smiled at him sympathetically. Dick was right in that phase of recovery when he was mentally fit enough to finally commit to advanced activities, but too exhausted physically. He felt bad that he wasn't able to present Dick with more distraction, but Bruce had neglected Wayne Enterprises during the critical months and needed to do some damage control now. Tim was spending his days in the library to study, Damian was in school, and Jason still didn't visit (at least not through the front door). Dick was on the phone most of the time and Babs came around as often as she could, but Bruce knew that Dick was tired of patient visits. He wanted a very specific kind of distraction that was challenging and had nothing whatsoever to do with hospitals and health. Too bad Bruce had made the rest of the family swear not to tell him much about crime fighting and Gotham.

"When will you be leaving tonight?" Dick asked just then, predictably.

Bruce swallowed and went through the case again; it wasn't tied to the photos or Freeze, so there wasn't any apparent reason not to tell Dick. Bruce just didn't like to, because he worried that it might trouble and thus overexert the boy, or that he would start to talk about it under drug or fever influence when other people were around.

But Dick was looking at him with big eyes, so desperate for a distraction that Bruce decided to make an exception and tell the reduced story. Dick knew the broad outline anyway, and Bruce would just give him a few more details. "We'll leave around eleven, Tim in civvies and me and Damian in costume. Tim sets the group up and will officially join them tonight, while me and Damian will keep an eye on him."

"Why today? You know where they'll be in three days, why risk Timmy's involvement?"

Bruce had already told him that they were going on a stake out for various days. They had a plan, knew the criminal group's plans for the next week, and already planned a team up with the Red Hood in a few days to arrest them. What Dick didn't know was that the group they were chasing was actually a top organized human trafficking ring that had slipped through the fingers of the police many times because of their decentralized structure. If anything seemed suspicious, the group dissolved into many small subgroups and vanished – the police managed to catch a few members, but those never carried enough evidence with them to be arrested for long or find the others.

Tim was going in undercover as an intermediary of a drug dealer ring that offered a new knock-out drug, hoping to get insider information about the inner structure of the group. There had to be a criminal mastermind somewhere, as well hidden and discreet as he was. If anything happened during the three days until the planned bust, Tim might have gathered enough information to still get rid of them. Bruce hoped that he might even be part of the disbanding and stay with the main group, while both Batman and Robin could always split up and continue their surveillance of the smaller subgroup separated.

All things he surely wouldn't tell Dick, even if the irony of the missing criminal mastermind was tempting. Bruce glanced at his son carefully, wondering how he had managed to fool them for months into searching for a non-existent puppet master. Babs had told them a few tricks, but they had decided to better let Dick tell that story – sadly, Dick didn't seem to feel the least need to bring the topic up. Bruce wondered if he had even realized that his master plan wasn't a secret any longer.. but then again, Bruce didn't even know how well Dick remembered the weeks preceding his relapse. He wasn't talking about it at all.

"They'll have other valuable information Tim might get out of them."

"But what if they'll go into hiding and Tim won't make it out in time for his exams? What if you'll have technical difficulties? What about the rest of Gotham while you'll watching them?"

Bruce shot Dick a stern look. "You don't have to worry about all that."

"But what about Harvey Dent? He managed to get out of that psychiatry ward!"

Bruce growled with displeasure. Damn the media for showing important news exactly when they shouldn't. He looked pointedly at Alfred, still leaning against the kitchen sink behind Dick, who shrugged with his shoulders as if saying 'what the hell am I supposed to do about the news?'.

"You won't tell me, will you?" Dick sighed sulkily. "I don't get it. It's not like I could run into the cave and grab a bike."

Bruce ignored the jab about the changed password to the cave and checked the clock, realizing he was running late for work again. He pushed his empty plate away and stood up, offering a hand to Dick, who sighed unhappily again.

"Come on, Bruce..."

"_Dick_," Bruce prompted with more urgency, and his stubborn son finally pushed himself up.

Bruce was watching closely for any signs of weakness or dizziness, but Dick seemed as fine as could be expected. He shot a longing, heartrending look into Alfred's direction, but moved next to Bruce when he saw that he wouldn't get any help from the butler.

As the two of them walked slowly back to the living room couch, Bruce felt a pang of guilty conscience about Dick's sullen silence. He really seemed to do well today; Bruce didn't have to support or call for stops as long as they weren't hurrying.

"Don't be mad at me," he broke the silence therefore as he opened a door for Dick. "You know that you need to take it slow."

"Yeah. Also I can't possibly miss the rerun of Desperate Housewives."

For a second, Bruce didn't know if Dick was being ironic again, but then he saw that Dick was actually glancing at the clock as if to make sure he wasn't too late yet.

"God forbid it. You wouldn't be able to follow the complex plot line."

"That's not funny, I can't even remember how old I ammost of the time."

Bruce felt bad immediately. Dick hadn't taken the news about his missed 24th birthday well. He had been feverish and drowsy all day, and every time one of them had checked he had been sleeping. Bruce knew that the problem hadn't been a missed birthday party, but the realization of how much time he had lost to the leukemia. With everything going on, that had been the icing on the cake.

And Dick's mind was still clouded by medication and exhaustion; he was just covering it well. He had problems staying awake for more than ten minutes as soon as he was lying down, and being condemned to watching television all day without being able to follow plot lines must be frustrating as hell.

"I always took you for a cartoon man," he mused therefore, trying to change the topic.

"Yeah, but the Powerpuff Girls are pretty boring if you actually have three little siblings who are crime fighting."

Bruce had to laugh at that, and the tense atmosphere loosened. Even Dick cracked a smile. They had reached the living room by now and steered to the couch where Dick was spending most of his time. While Bruce reached for the remote control and flipped on the TV, Dick sunk back into the ridiculous amount of cushions and blankets. The opening theme of Desperate Housewives began, and Bruce took a moment to gaze at all the different pill bottles, empty teacups and old newspapers that littered the place.

"I know, I know, don't say anything," Dick waved at the pathetic sight dismissively. "I'll clean it up this afternoon. Alf keeps glaring at me every time he walks by."

"Do you need help? If it's too much..." Bruce trailed off when he saw how Dick's expression darkened.

"It's _fine._"

Bruce had to get going, but he didn't want to leave on that note. Unfortunately for him, Dick's small talk abilities were among the things he was missing since he had returned from the hospital. Bruce could understand that it took a lot of patience and nerves to strike up a small talk conversation with _him_; capabilities Dick didn't have at the moment. But Bruce didn't possess them either, never had, and after almost fifteen years of relying on Dick's constant talking, he really didn't know how to strike up a conversation when the roles were reversed.

An uncomfortable silence ensued therefore, only disturbed by the quiet sounds of the TV.

"Is she still hooking up with her gardener?" Bruce asked finally, when he couldn't think of anything else. Embarrassment was better than Dick's resignation.

"Huh? Gardener?" Dick stared at him confused, then followed his gaze to the TV were one of the housewives was rushing through a shoe store in a shopping spree. "Oh, _Gaby_?_!_ Bruce, that was _ages_ ago!"

"Well, I'm not exactly up-to-date," Bruce shrugged at had to chuckle at Dick's flabbergasted expression. "I got couch time-outs, too."

Dick pried his eyes away from him and shook his head with a quiet laugh. "All my respect for you evaporated in this very moment."

Bruce pushed himself up from the backrest of the couch and headed for the door. "'Evaporate' is a big word for someone who can't remember how old he is."

The cushion hurtled past him by inches and hit the wall instead. Bruce smiled when he heard the Romani curses behind him, and was glad about how very Dick-like that reaction had been.

He ignored that Dick had been able to hit his targets in his sleep just a few months ago.

* * *

-tbc-

*this is a reference to Lifelines, chapter 11.

* * *

**A/N**: _a few things you should be aware of:_

_-Faultlines will deal mainly with Dick and Bruce's relationship. It's about Dick's struggle to come to terms with his new situation, and Bruce's involvement in it. Damian will be important, too. Tim, Jason, Alfred and Babs will be there, of course, but they won't be as important as they were in Lifelines._

_-Faultlines won't be as heavy on medical termini anymore. There will be some (you know me by now ;) ), but nowhere near as much._

_-I won't be able to update as regularly anymore. Sorry in advance. I'm writing my bachelor's thesis right now, will move next month and then start my master's degree, so there is a lot on my plate right now. I'm trying to stay ahead with chapters, but I can't guarantee that it'll work._

_-no slash, no romance, but cussing and some violence._

_R&R, please :)_


	2. Chapter 1

_thanks for a very warm reception :)_

* * *

**FAULTINES**

CHAPTER ONE

The ringing cellphone pulled Dick out of his sleep, and he reached for it blindly.

The blanket of sleep that covered his mind was as heavy as his eyelids, and Dick aimed straight for the rejection button – whoever was calling knew now that he was around and aware, but not able or willing to talk at the moment. The usual procedure was that either Dick himself called back in a few minutes, or the person on the other line did; and if Dick rejected again or didn't even do that, the other person was free to panic. If Dick just didn't want to talk, he'd send an optionally empty text back. Tim had worked out this system when Dick was still in the hospital, and Dick had accepted it grudgingly after Wally had appeared in his room three times, breathless because someone had panicked and called him to check up on Dick as soon as possible.

It had been annoying back then, not being able to rest and retire, but after a while Dick had been able to see the therapeutic measure that prevented his depression. The rest of his family and friends had happily accepted the system, glad to have a way of interpreting Dick's silence, and Dick had found that it was a nice way to keep track of day and night time, with his irregular sleeping patterns. Even if most of the people he knew were nocturnal, they called mostly during the day.

Except if their name was Jason Peter Todd, who tended to be bitchy if Dick rejected the call. Like now.

With a heavy sigh, Dick pushed the call button and tried to focus his eyes on the watch next to his bed. 2AM... in Jason's world, that could mean anything.

"_Did I wake you up?"_

"It's 2am, Jay..." Dick suppressed a yawn and sat upright in bed. His head felt heavy, sleep was vanishing only slowly.

"_Yeah, sorry. I thought I'd give you a heads-up. The Baby Devil will be back in a few minutes and he'll be _pissed._"_

"Damian?" That got Dick's full attention. "Is everything all right?"

It was the second day of the big stakeout, and Dick was awaiting mayhem every second. The mission had been planned as a long one, Bruce had been talking about the possibility of more than a week, so two days weren't that big of a deal; but the Batfamily just wasn't that lucky. Or patient. With Tim undercover and Damian and Bruce forced to cooperate for days without break, anything could happen anytime, and probably sooner than later.

Alfred had been annoyingly tight-lipped about the mission's progress, strictly following Bruce's rule of not letting Dick know 'too much'. Tim had texted him once yesterday at least and Barbara had told him a few more details. Dick hated not knowing what was going on, and he was more than willing to argue with Alfred about the things he could and couldn't know. Unfortunately he had fallen asleep on the couch every time he had waited for Alfred to come upstairs from the cave, which hadn't helped much.

It was beyond frustrating. He was 23 years old and didn't need Alfred and Bruce's coddling!

...24. 24 years old.

_...God fucking damnit!_

"_Hello? Still there, Dickiebird?"_

Dick collected his thoughts and cursed his failing attention span. This was important! "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying?"

"_The bust didn't happen, the police showed up and ruined our show. The Baby Brat got hurt."_

"_What?!_ Is he okay?"

Dick's heart started to race. _Damian_ was hurt!

"_Yes, it's not that bad. But the group dissolved, and the replacement is still with them. They can't just stop the gig now." _

Dick felt himself calming down. Jason sounded relaxed, so things couldn't be that bad. Alfred would've probably be the one charged with telling him bad news...

"_So, Bats wants to keep up with the plan, but the problem is that he needs Alfred and Oracle's surveillance now 24/7 to keep himself informed and Timmy safe."_

And then Dick knew where this was heading, and he couldn't help but groan into the receiver. "That's it? Alfred can't babysit me any more?"

"_Yupp. Threw a fit when I suggested that you'd be fine for a few hours without him. I'm back in 'Haven already, so Bats sent the Devil Spawn home to look after you, since he got hurt anyway and all that jazz."_

"...and Damian didn't take that well, huh?" Dick was rubbing his temples to fight the upcoming headache. Gosh, this was ridiculous..

"_No, he's spitting mad. Just thought you should know, before he tries to suffocate you in your sleep."_

Jason sounded amused, but to Dick, nothing about this was funny. It felt frustrating and embarrassing, and now Damian was probably mad at him and surely at his father. They were just starting to get along, but being benched was a no-go for every Robin. Bruce had never understood what a rejection entailed for them. It felt like failure, and Damian took failure even less well than the rest of them combined.

"This is moronic," Dick complained therefore. "I'll call Babs; she'll connect me with Bruce and Alfred."

"_Dude, don't. The Big Guy's pissed at Damian and you know how Alfred feels about leaving you alone after that night. Save yourself the trouble."_

The guilty conscience welled up immediately. 'That night' meant the night when Dick had vomited blood and passed out in the bathroom while Alfred had been busy in the cave. They had been alone and Dick hadn't told them he'd relapsed, so in his opinion Alfred wasn't responsible for what had happened... yet the old man still blamed himself.

Dick's memory about that night was fuzzy; he remembered the crazy amount of blood in the toilet bowl and how the panic had ebbed away into tiredness, invincible and total. Alfred had later told him that when they found him, he was laying on the tiles as if he had decided to take a nap, and had already lost enough blood to go into shock. Vomiting blood hadn't stopped though, and they had come incredibly close to losing him.

Alfred took the blame for that, since he had been there, only a few metres away. He should have checked up on him, or should have insisted on walkie-talkies or something. Dick had tried to talk him out of it, but talking _Alfred_ out of something was like making Damian hold on to a balloon. It didn't happen.

"Couldn't _you_ come by?" Dick heard himself argue, even though he knew how pointless it was now. "Bruce has to know how Damian feels about being benched."

"_I'm back in Blüdhaven." _

Jason's voice was tight now. It wouldn't take long to drive back from 'Haven to the Manor and Jason knew that perfectly well. The reason he hadn't jumped in to prevent the upcoming, Damian-related fireworks was the fact that he didn't want to spent too much time in the Manor. Alfred knew, too, and didn't push the young man.

Dick could understand Jason's reluctance; the Manor harboured so many memories, good and bad ones, and Jason wasn't ready to deal with all of them yet. But on the other hand, he was getting along with Bruce now and cherished time with Alfred – so in Dick's opinion, it was time to man up.

"You could have even used the front door this time. You know no one's around to watch you."

"_Dick..."_

He was being an asshole now, he knew. He should be glad that Jason and Bruce had apparently patched things up while he had been out of it – after all, that had been his great goal. They weren't best buddies, and arguments were still frequent, but hey, at least they were talking. With Jason as permanent Nightwing in Blüdhaven who didn't kill, their relationship had lost a lot of tension.

It had strained Dick and Jason's, though, at least that was what it felt like for Dick. Admittedly, he hadn't known what to feel about Jason taking over Nightwing at Bruce's request at first: there had been that familiar burn of betrayal and replacement, but then again he had been proud of Jason and Bruce for trying to find a way. It had been his own idea to show Jason the perspective of Nightwing, after all, and Jason kept telling him it was only temporary until he was on his feet.

So when he thought about it, his discomfort came down to another thing again. The thing _everything_ came down to in the end. There was something they weren't telling him. Something – or many somethings? – that was related to the mission and to Nightwing in Blüdhaven. Something that made Tim bite his lip when Dick asked him about Arkham, that made Bruce frown and Jason's temper rise.

"Sorry. I just don't get it. I thought you and Bruce were getting along now."

Jason hesitated for a second, and Dick could hear the hiss of a lighter on the other line. _"It's still tense."_

"Is it because he wanted you to be Nightwing?" It was a shot in the dark, but Jason didn't let himself get dragged into those conversations often and Dick wanted to make the best out it. "Because if it is, don't be mad at him. He's almost as bad with expressing his feelings as you are."

"_What? No. What made you think of that?"_ Jason actually sounded surprised.

"Well, you always get grumpy when we talk about Nightwing."

"_That's not true,"_ Jason said, grumpy, and Dick had to swallow down the chuckles. _"I just don't like that suit. No way to carry ammunition."_

"Oh, you just have to be more creative," Dick joked, and predictably, Jason swore and interrupted the connection.

It would have been rude with any other person, but for Jason's standards that had been a long conversation. He usually hung up after he said his piece, so it was pretty big that he let Dick bitch around like that.

And Dick really couldn't complain, because he was still honestly amazed that _Jason_ had just called him to warn him about that yellow-caped hurricane racing home. Jason had called him, had interacted with the family, even cooperated on the (unfortunately gone wrong) gig. Crazy stuff.

It didn't solve the mystery of what they were hiding from him, or why Jason didn't like to talk about Nightwing when he obviously had a fun time patrolling Blüdhaven. It solved the mystery why Damian would be in a piss-poor mood, though, so Dick decided to concentrate on that for now.

* * *

True enough, a few minutes later Dick could hear Damian stomping upstairs. Still mad, then.

As mature as his little brother liked to think he was, he was still ten years old and couldn't resist the temptation of stomping and slamming doors. It would have been kind of adorable if Dick didn't know by then that Damian still had an untreated stab wound in the shoulder and various other cuts and bruises.

He had talked with Alfred on his phone after Jason had hung up. Before Damian had made it past his room and slammed his door, Alfred had informed him that the little ex-assassin had refused treatment, so there was a bit of work to do for Dick.

He waited for a few minutes to give Damian a bit time to cool off, then he slipped out into the corridor and softly knocked against the door. There was no answer, but Dick decided that no answer also meant no 'stay out', so he entered.

The room was empty at first sight, and the bathroom was vacant, too. The window was open, but Dick had helped to raise enough little brothers to see a fake decoy and slowly sauntered over to close it. Tim had done this a few times when he had babysat him, but he was sure as hell not going to tell that to Damian. Not when he was just doing something so childish Dick might actually squeak in delight.

Instead he tightened his morning robe and got to his knees, trying not to lament like an old person about everything that protested in his body when he did so, and peeked under the bed. Robin was lying there, minus the mask, with a grumpy look on his face as he met his gaze.

_So_ cute.

"Hiding from the world?" Dick asked sympathetically.

Damian '_-tt-'_ed and turned his head to stare at the slatted bed frame. "Don't you dare tell Father, Grayson." His cheeks were the brightest shade of red, matching his vest.

"That you're hiding under the bed? What's wrong with that?"

"It's a cowardly move. And childish. Father would be ashamed if he knew."

Oh yes, right to the awkward topic, typical Damian.

"Your Father has built a whole cave to hide from the world, Dami." The boy turned to look at him, surprised, and Dick shrugged. "Mind if I join you?"

He didn't await his brother's reply, and simply crawled under the bed and nestled beside him. They were both silent for a few minutes and just stared upwards, at the underside of the mattress. Surprisingly, Damian didn't make a move to throw him out or to get out from his hiding place, so Dick interpreted that as a green light.

"It's nice down here," he began therefore, using his usual technique of annoying Damian until his little brother himself started to talk about the serious stuff to shut him up. "Some curtains would be good."

"-Tt-, Grayson, you shouldn't be lying on the ground. It's cold, you'll get sick again."

Dick allowed himself a small smile. Damian's way of admitting he cared was as straightforward as Bruce's, but it was _there_. And it came more often, Dick liked to believe, which was awesome. Not only Tim had grown when he had been sick – Damian had changed, too, and all for the better in Dick's opinion. He was still behaving like an arrogant little prick towards Tim and Jason, liked to order Alfred around and was a ticking bomb on every high society party... but he was getting his act together, and Dick was proud and touched.

"Don't I always?"

"You're being irresponsible."

"Says the one with the bleeding shoulder."

"_-tt-."_

"And the costume. Jeez, how did you even make it past Alf?"

"I just walked away. Pennyworth was busy on the comm link."

Dick whistled, impressed. "You will suffer for that. Ignoring Alf _and_ bringing a costume upstairs."

"..-tt-."

Dick turned to his side and looked at Damian for the first time since he crawled under the bed. "What happened, Dami?"

Damian didn't answer at first, but that was okay. Dick stayed on his side but averted his gaze and waited. Damian was clearly debating what and whether to tell him, and Dick used the time to try to convince himself that the aching in his pelvis had nothing to do with his banged-up kidneys. Maybe Damian had been right and he shouldn't be lying here. Oh, well. Too late.

"Father sent me home," Damian began finally, and Dick hummed in confirmation. "I'm not hurt that badly, I'm perfectly capable of fighting. Still he sent me home."

Damian sounded so bitter that Dick knew there was something else going on. He was way too friendly towards his big brother to be mad at him, so Dick had already formed a suspicion in the back of his mind when Damian decided to go on.

"He dismissed me right in front of them."

_Bingo. _"Tim and Jason."

"Todd was there, and Gordon and the idiot Drake were connected over the comm link," Damian turned his face away again, probably blushing in shame. "He didn't even try to make it sound like it was about you. I simply wasn't good enough for his standards."

Dick's heart went out to his brother. When it came down to it all, Damian only wanted to be accepted by his father, and Bruce was too emotionally constipated to understand. Dick couldn't help but sigh – he knew exactly how Damian felt.

"He accepted you a long time ago, D. He was just worried about you."

"There was no reason to be worried!"

"You got hurt. What better reason is there?"

"I got hurt because I messed up. I should have seen the blade."

They used to have this talk so often, Dick wondered when Damian would finally manage to set aside his pride and accept the truth he was offering him. With all the progress he was making lately, Dick hoped it would be soon.

"Bruce thinks exactly the same thing right now. He always blames himself for all the injuries we collect. He just can't communicate it."

Damian was looking at him now, strangely. When he didn't answer, Dick went further. "His only objective was to get you away from further danger. I bet he didn't take one second to think about the effect his... _ways_ were having on you."

"_-tt-._.."

"And he trusts you. Discussion over." Dick turned back on his back and suppressed the pained wince the action caused him. Definitely the kidneys, shit.

"That was more of a monologue."

"Unimportant. Let me have a look at your shoulder."

To his relief, Damian consented and rolled out from under the bed. Dick followed, remarkably less elegant, and after a few dizzy moments when he sat up too quickly, Dick was carefully lifting the pieces of cloth from Damian's wound.

It was just a flesh wound, but a bad one. Dick grimaced as the edges of the stab started bleeding again when he ripped dried blood away together with the adjoining, shredded pieces of the Robin uniform. Damian remained stoic throughout, although his eyebrows twitched when Dick lightly pressed against other parts of the shoulder to make sure no crucial tendons or muscles were damages. It looked good, but after patching him up, Dick still pulled a pill bottle out of his PJ-pocket.

"What's that?" Damian asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes when Dick rattled the orange container happily.

"That's my all time favourite. It'll make you groggy, but you won't feel any pain at all. Trust me." He wouldn't have survived chemo without this stuff, no shit. And Damian's shoulder would hurt badly as soon as he tried to get out of the uniform's vest – unconsciously the boy was holding his shoulder in a relieving posture.

"I'm sure Father wouldn't approve," Damian objected, and then added, when he realized how much more meaningfully he could have phrased that: "Neither would Pennyworth."

"You're in your rebellious phase, so who cares." Dick flicked the lid open. "Okay seriously, Damian. I'm not up to walking downstairs to get your usual medicine and neither are you. You lost a lot of blood and should sleep now. That shoulder will hurt and itch like hell as soon as you move it, so just take something that will make you sleepy at the same time."

Damian nodded and held out his good hand, and Dick plopped a pill on his palm. Not as convinced as Dick, Damian swallowed it. The medicine was already working and Damian blinked tiredly when Dick ruffled his hair affectionately and stood up to leave him to redress in private.

Dick excused himself and left the room, longing for his own bed. He felt good about calming down Damian – it felt like ages since he had helped someone – and decided to have a good talk with Bruce as soon as he was back. When he was close to his room, he could already hear his mobile phone ringing.

He wasn't fast enough to answer it in time, so when Dick grabbed it, the display informed him about four missed calls from Barbara – _shit_.

She picked up after the first ring._ "Dick?!"_

"Yeah, it's me. Everything's fine, I'm sorry I didn't pi-"

"_Dick, someone's in the Manor!"_

Dick's body reacted faster than his mind; his blood ran cold, while he had to concentrate to stammer out a confused "What?"

"_Someone broke into the Manor only seconds ago. They're downstairs. I can't make out their faces, they're wearing masks."_

His blood started flow again with a heady rush. Dick glanced at the door as if awaiting to see someone standing there. "A robbery?"

"_I don't know. Dick, Alfred can't come upstairs, it's too risky, and I can't reach Wally. Is Damian home already?"_

"Dami? He.. yes." _But I just drugged him with some of the strongest stuff there is._

_Oh shit._

Dick's heart started to beat painfully fast in his chest. Alfred couldn't come upstairs without risking revealing the entrance to the cave, Damian was drugged and hurt, and no one else was here. Shit shit shit.

"_Dick, get Damian and hide. B is on his way!"_

She disconnected the line at the same moment Dick heard movement downstairs. Someone must have destroyed a vase or something like that, for there was shattering noise and then at least two voices were swearing. Both were unfamiliar. For a terrible moment Dick didn't know what to do, until Barbara's command came back to him: _get Damian and hide._

Damian's room was much closer to the staircase than his own. Dick fully opened his door and listened closely to the people downstairs. He wouldn't get a better chance than now to rush over unnoticed, so he swallowed drily and stepped out.

He tried not to think about what would happen if Bruce didn't make it home early enough.

_-tbc-_


	3. Chapter 2

_Hey! I'm _so, so_ sorry you had to wait so long for the update. Obviously, my plan to stay ahead with chapters failed badly. But on the bright side, I submitted my bachelor's thesis (which was about cultural responses to AIDS. guess who can't get away from medical drama? :) ), moved, and started my master's degree. So now, I can finally sit in my new flat and write for fun. Updates should come a looot more often and regular from now on!  
_

_Judging from some reviews, I need to repeat that Faultlines is the THIRD installment of the Lifelines-series. The order is Lifelines - interline (and Xenitha's Spotted Line as bonus) - Faultlines. You should read it, there are some things in Faultlines that might not make sense otherwise. You'll see that in this chapter.  
_

_Other than that, I'm sorry I have left you so long with the cliffhanger.  
_

* * *

**FAULTLINES**

CHAPTER TWO

Dick's heart was beating rapidly in his chest as he walked through the hallway to Damian's room.

The voices below were still arguing, and from the sound of it they moved to and fro in the living room area. He didn't know what they wanted – burglars? Kidnappers? Wayne Manor had had a lot of unwelcome guests over the years, and each time had been more bone-chilling; Bruce kept his security system up-to-date, so each new intruder was cleverer and thus more dangerous than the last one.

As he was creeping across the floor, barefoot – thank God – on a soft carpet, Dick tried to decipher how many men were down there. Two had been arguing, and kept insulting each other even now, although in hushed voiced. Over the thumping of his own heart in his ears, Dick couldn't make out any creaking floorboards or the rustling of fabric, so he went for two. They could deal with two, somehow.

Dick was right in front of Damian's door now, which was just around the corner of the staircase-from-hell, Dick's new nemesis and the only way downstairs. They would have climb it in order to get to their rooms, and then cross the long hallway to reach Damian's room. Dick's was further down the hall, and one more corner to the right, Bruce's super-expensive panic room was waiting for them.

He remembered the jokes and the stupid comments when Bruce had installed the panic rooms on each floor. With the money, they could have bought an (other) island in the Caribbean Sea, and the Batfamily had encountered enough superpowers to know how useless the rooms were in times of a Bat-emergency... yet Bruce had gloomily insisted, since one of the richest men on the globe couldn't go without one, especially in a house full of kids. So he had done what Bruce Wayne, super-playboy and billionaire-par-excellence always did: he went over the top and loudly presented the rooms at the next dinner party.

Needless to say, they hadn't used the rooms _once. _They dutifully changed the codes each month as the manual had recommended, and never looked at them twice.

And just then, Dick took two precious seconds to congratulate the universe for the most ironic instance it had presented him with so far: since he had been 18, he had remembered every code, regardless if he had been living in the Manor or not, and had not needed it once. And now, the one time he did, he didn't know the numbers. They changed them at the beginning of each month – and this month, he had spent the first week somewhere in Lala-Land, drugged and feverish after Tim had carried some of Ivy's pollen into the Manor. No one had thought of updating him, least of all himself.

Screw it, Damian would know them.

The voices downstairs were still hissing at each other, moving from the kitchen to the living room and back again. Dick slipped into Damian's room and dared to leave the door open for a few inches, to be able to hear anything if the intruders decided to move.

"Damian!" Dick whispered, urgently, and hurried over to Damian's bed. "Dami, wake up!"

Damian only groaned after he shook him a few times, and by then Dick knew he was fucked. His little brother looked up at him with bleary eyes.

"Damian, there's someone here. We need to get into the panic room!"

Damian's pupils were blown, and a small wrinkle appeared on his forehead as he tried to understand. Dick closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. No more adult drugs for 10-years-olds. Bruce was _so_ going to kill him.

"Dick? Whazzit?" Damian finally managed to get out, way too loud for Dick's highly -strung senses, so he reached out and clasped his hand over Damian's mouth. That got the little assassin's attention, at least; a small flicker of annoyance crossed Damian's unfocused gaze.

"Do you remember the code to the panic room?" Dick asked, trying to convene the seriousness of the situation into the few hushed words. His voice was quavering, he dimly noticed.

Damian only blinked at him, then yawned.

"_Damian!_ The panic room codes!"

He sighed deeply and ran a hand through the short, crazy curls. Damian was too out of it to understand, and he had to hurry. Dick felt his heart race again – for a few seconds, he had actually believed they'd manage the easy way. No such luck. A headache was coming on, too, Dick could feel the soft throbbing in his temples.

No panic room, then. It was too much of a risk to drag Damian all the way there and hope he'd remember by then. Dick decided to grab the boy and hurry back to his room, into the adjacent bathroom and lock the door. Babs had said Bruce was on his way, and he would look for Dick's room first thing.

"Come on!" Dick grabbed Damian's arm and hauled him out of the bed. Even though drugged to the eyeballs, Damian seemed to understand what was asked of him and shakily got to his feet. "Alright, try to be quiet!"

Dick took Damian's hand and moved to the door, peering out. No one was out there, but he heard noises. Carefully stepping out, Dick concentrated on the voice he heard, realizing with dread that it was a new one – three men, at least. The stakes weren't good. Bruce needed to hurry. But maybe Babs managed to reach Wally; then everything would be fine in a matter of seconds.

He was pulled out of his reveries when he heard steps; someone was climbing up the stairs.

_Shit!_

With a racing heart, Dick hurried back to his room and pulled Damian behind him. The boy was not as silent as he wished he'd be – still naturally graceful, but not as noiseless as he could be... but oh well, Dick wasn't either. Just a few months ago, Damian and Dick would have been able to sneak up on any intruder and knock them unconscious in two seconds.

They reached Dick's room just in time. It was probably the adrenaline raging through his body, but Dick thought he saw the tip of a shoe down the hall just as he pulled the door shut. Trying to regain control over his breathing in order to slow down the hammering of his heart, Dick leaned his ear against the door to hear something. Years of Bruce's training had made him an expert on hearing steps, the rustling of cloths, or even breaths, and his ears were one of the few things the leukemia hadn't touched. So when he didn't hear the clicking of a door and the continuing sound of footsteps, Dick trusted his senses and swallowed hard. They were coming his way. Fear spiked up his spine.

Dick didn't have a key to his room anymore. Bruce and Alfred (and the rest of the lot, too) had adamantly argued that it wasn't safe to be locked up in his room in his condition. After gloomily remembering that Jason once had to climb through his bathroom window in Blüdhaven to pick him up from the tiles, Dick consented.

Irony just wasn't his friend today. A locked wooden door wouldn't have protected them for long, but every second it would have taken the intruders to pick or destroy it would have been a second more for Bruce and whoever else was rushing their way.

A loud swear pulled Dick out of his thought. They were approaching. Grabbing Damian's arm again, Dick ushered him into his private bathroom. It wasn't Fort Knox, but it was a locked door between them and the intruders.

Dick shoved Damian roughly into the room and then closed the door, grabbed for the key and –

-and froze.

No key.

No _key_.

The panic hit. He had been able to control it so far, concentrating on noises and escape plans, but now, the helplessness of the situation had overrun him. His mind went blank. Dick stared dumbstruck at the empty space he had grabbed. _No key_. They must have removed it, too.

For a short moment, Dick got angry at this crude intrusion into his privacy, but then the extra adrenaline settled with force. His heart, beating fast thanks to the anxiety and exertion already, sped up its beating, this time almost painfully.

Dick whirled around to his medicine cabinet, hoping to find something that might counter the drug Damian had taken in a desperate attempt to find a way of getting them both out of here alive, but then sucked in a breath when he realized what he had been missing all the time. Things were spiraling out of his control too fast.

It wasn't exactly _Damian_ in front of him – it was _Robin_. Robin in a bloody uniform, with bandages around his shoulders, and _without his mask_. The drugs must have knocked him out so quickly that Damian had either forgotten or not bothered with changing.

This wasn't good. This really wasn't good.

An unmasked Robin was sitting in Richard Grayson's bathroom in Wayne Manor, obviously hurt and drugged. The uniform was too advanced to be put off as some Halloween costume or Pjs, and the blood stains obvious.

_Shit._

The situation crashed down on Dick, so hard that he felt dizzy and had to lean against the sink. No locks, no defences, but an unmasked Robin and a former cancer patients against at least three intruders, definitely with criminal intent.

They would get whatever they wanted. They would get more than they wanted – Robin's identity, and with it Batman's.

The world tilted dangerously, and Dick suppressed a pained groan as his chest constricted painfully. He realized he was breathing too heavy, almost hyperventilating. He needed to stop.

_Stop._

Get a grip on the situation.

He couldn't do anything about the doors or the men trying to find them, but maybe he could make Robin disappear. Looking around, Dick ruled out the most obvious possibility – there was nowhere to hide Damian. Robin's bright red vest would shimmer through the shower curtains, and the bathroom cabinet was too small.

With two fast strides, Dick was back in his room again, hurrying to his wardrobe. Maybe he had time to get Damian into other clothes, and hide the Robin costume – they wouldn't search for it, after all. He grabbed a shirt and boxers and rushed back, closed the bathroom door behind him again, just when he heard a hushed voice.

Kneeling in front of the dosing Damian, hands already undoing the first button, Dick froze and concentrated on the voice. It was merely a small, incredibly quiet hiss, almost indistinguishable among the sounds of Dick's own heavy breaths and racing heartbeat, but it was definitely a voice. They were right in front of the door to his room.

Then the noise of a door banging against the wall, and three pairs of feet burst into the room, only to come to an abrupt stop.

Dick didn't dare to breathe. Fear clutched icily around his heart.

Two of the men started to swear immediately, probably having sensed that the room was empty.

"What is this bloody shit?!"

"He was supposed to be here! What fucking shit is this!"

A third voice joined them, reprimanding them to be silent. Obviously the leader.

It was only a question of time until they checked the bathroom. Dick looked down at the drowsy Damian and realized that he wouldn't be able to redress him in time. His hands were shaking too badly to even undo the buttons, and what would happen if they caught him undressing Damian? Or if they found a naked Damian in his big brothers room at night? When nobody else was home? Bruised and bleeding?

The bile rose in Dick's chest at the thought. He was utterly fucked. Slowly, his gaze wandered away from his hands at Damian's vest, to the drawer under the sink.

It was where he kept Jason's gun.

He had removed it from his room a few weeks ago, believing that his family would show a little bit more tolerance for his privacy when it came to hygienic and sanitary stuff, which was usually stored in the bathroom (and boy was he wrong. He really wanted that key back.). Alfred had just recently opened various drawers in his room to look for some pills, completely ignoring Dick's weak complaints.

The gun. The_ loaded_ gun.

Dick's stomach twisted when he thought about using a gun in Wayne Manor. Bruce would be terrified, disappointed. But then again, this wasn't a regular kidnapping, was it? Dick probably would end up in the hospital with the mother of all pneumonias if he had to sleep on some moist and cold cellar floor, and Damian...

He had to protect Damian. The boy was basically asleep while hell around him broke lose, eyelids closed all but for a small slit. He wouldn't be able to protect himself if push came to shove, revealed identity or not.

By the end of that thought, Dick was already standing at the drawer and looked down the gun Jason had given him. The voices outside were still arguing, but one set of steps was audibly walking through the room, looking for hiding places or clues.

Dick grabbed the gun and was surprised at how heavy it felt. He had used a similar model as a cop, but it had never felt that heavy. When he moved to the door quietly, he wondered whether he was just so fucking weak, or whether that was the metaphorical weight holding him down. Either way, things were seriously fucked.

He positioned himself with his back against the door, trying vainly to control the painful beating in his chest. The door opened into the room, so if someone pulled it open, he had to lean into the movement, snap the door open and surprise the intruder thus, and get his gun ready all the while.

His fucking _heavy_ gun. Dick barely managed to lift it up, and his hands were shaking violently. He had to aim for shoulders – that way he might not kill anybody but disable them long enough.

God, this felt terrible.

Outside, the intruders were getting more and more engulfed in their own argument. _Not very professional_, Dick thought, and just then hell broke lose. Something broke, loudly, and one of the two squabblers started to scream bloody murder. Hurried footsteps, more insults. For a second, Dick believed that Batman had shown up, but then the leader's voice came up once again and hissed at them to shut up.

They didn't. The noises of the fight were growing louder, the leader was beginning to scream for them to stop. He was close. Dick's nerves were so tense, he was going to snap soon. He cocked the gun.

Then suddenly, there were very distinct, vigorous steps aimed straight for the bathroom door, more, louder insults, and Dick closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to whoever was listening.

The door opened just then behind him, Dick threw his (unimpressive) weight against it, stumbled outside with the movement and swirled around.

"_Weapons down! Hands up!_" he yelled, and forced his shaking arms to lift the gun.

Everything happened so fast – movement, sound, colours, all blurred for those precious moments, before he recognized Alfred's shocked face behind the gun.

_-tbc-_

* * *

_(okay so I wasn't really sorry about the cliffhanger)_


	4. Chapter 3

_gaaah, god damnit, I mess up the cutlines in my plot document. Last chapter should have been longer, I stopped it too early.. and now this one is endless! And so much is happening at once. Sorry for the emotional roller coaster. At least that way, I think I made up for the double-cliff hangers, yes? And some characters finally have their first appearance, that's also something. _

* * *

**FAULTLINES**

**ChAPTER THREE**

Batman was running.

The comm link was deadly silent; no one dared to speak after the first wave of panic and confused shouting that followed Oracle's first, stricken whisper: _'Someone's on the Manor grounds.'_

They didn't have enough manpower to keep the gig going after Damian got hurt. With Jason back in Blüdhaven to stop a large illegal cargo transport and Tim undercover, Batman had risked the rest of Gotham in order to stop the gang that terrorized the city for weeks. Alfred had been his additional eyes and ears instead of Damian, and Oracle had been assigned to help Nightwing. Only by chance did she notice the small, blinking light on her right that had been triggered through the Manor's security system.

It was too late for Alfred to get out of the Cave, the danger of running into the intruders too high. As much as Bruce hated to leave Dick and Damian on their own, he was also glad that Alfred was out of danger for now. But Dick and Damian... One was hurt, the other one recovering, not strong enough to squash a bug. The icy fingers around his chest constricted again when Bruce thought about them.

So Batman was running.

He couldn't enter through the Cave, which would have been the fastest way, for obvious reasons. Instead he had raced through Gotham with the Batmobile and screeched to a halt a few hundred meters from the Manor. Now, he ran.

_'They're going upstairs.'_ Barbara's voice was calm, strained. She was just as afraid as he was._ 'Dick and Damian are rushing towards Dick's room... oh shit, B., _hurry_.'_

Bruce grunted in response, reaching the Manor's walls just then. He contemplated for a second bursting into Dick's room through the window, but decided to try to sneak up on the intruders from behind. Maybe they wouldn't see him and no hostage situation could occur.

_'I'm getting out,' _Alfred suddenly announced over the comm link, impatience and worry echoing in every syllable. With the intruders upstairs, he could finally slip out of the Cave.

"Don't go up there alone. I'm there in a few seconds." Batman willed the panic away behind a veil of logic and calm. With swift movements, he pulled two devices out of his belt. With one, he sucked in the window pane of the living room, and with the other he cut a hole into the pane with clinical precision. The heated diamond shard in his hand melted the edges of the glass he just laid bare in the process and smoothed them – no shards, no jutted edges, no blood. Catwoman taught him that trick.

"Oracle, what's happening?" he asked before climbing noiselessly into his own home. He headed to the staircase, cursing his heavy boots, and saw an impatient Alfred standing there already. They nodded at each other and began to make their way upstairs, painfully slowly in order to avoid any creaking of the old stairs. Not for the first time, Bruce decided to make plans for renovations.

_'They're entering Dick's room right now,'_ Barbara said and sighed. There weren't any cameras in the private rooms; the kids had insisted on the privacy and Bruce had agreed. When Dick had been sick and moved back to the Manor, Bruce and Alfred had discussed the possibility of installing one, but had consented to just take Dick's key. Everyone had been happy with that arrangement... until today.

Bruce gritted his teeth in frustration. Why did this have to happen _now_? Jason out of town, Cassandra and Stephanie in Hong Kong, Tim undercover – who was probably going crazy right now, since they had cut off his comm link so he wouldn't be constantly distracted – and even Selina was absent. Clark was off-world and Wallace West had been seriously hurt in battle a few days ago. Damian was hurt, and neither Bruce nor Alfred knew how badly since the boy hadn't let them look at the injured shoulder, adamantly insisting he was fine when he clearly wasn't. And Dick? Dick couldn't even stay on his feet for more than ten minutes without tiring, even if he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that fact.

Bruce was pulled out of his musings when they turned the corner and were greeted with angry voices. Alfred and he shared an incredulous look. They were _arguing_?

The door to Dick's room was still open and the sounds of curses and insults were echoing through the halls. Bruce tried to explain to himself how such amateurs managed to overcome his security measures, but he was actually glad for it. A bunch of professionals would have been in and out with whatever they wanted before he'd even set foot into the Manor. Oracle had reported that they had already argued down in the living room area, which must have given Dick and Damian a lot of time.

Bruce and Alfred crept towards the door and pressed their backs flat against the wall next to it when they reached their goal. Bruce was just contemplating how to proceed, when one of the thugs suddenly yelled "I'm done with this, suckers!" and walked right out of the door into their arms.

Even as the thug registered in front of whom he was standing, eyes widening at the recognition of Batman, Bruce had already activated the knock-out gas pressure sprayer in his left glove and sprayed a good dose straight into the intruder's face. Eyes firmly fixed on the black figure, the thug slumped forward and was caught by strong arms and a hand that clamped over his mouth for good measure.

That had been easier than expected, but of course their luck didn't last long.

"Greg, you son of a bitch!" A voice from inside Dick's room called and the shouting continued, with one voice nearing the entrance. Bruce knew he had to act. They wouldn't get another happy shot, so he nodded shortly to Alfred and turned, dashing into the room with billowing cape.

The two remaining thugs definitely had not expected him. The one that had approached the door had been held back by the leader, who had grabbed a fistful of his shirt. He had turned around and faced away from Batman, still spewing insults at his comrade. This leader, though, was fully facing the Bat that had just come through the door and turned a sickly shade of white.

They were both lying on the floor in mere seconds. Only now did Bruce allow himself to breathe. All three were out. They had seen him, which was unfortunate, but his sons hadn't been harmed.

One weak moan drew his attention back to the ground and he swiftly knelt down to spray the knock out spray into both faces, while he registered Alfred's swift steps behind him, hurrying towards the bathroom door.

Things went downhill from them.

Bruce was still busy with the thugs – making sure they laid in the right position so they could breathe, all part of the routine of using physical violence and executed in a negligible amount of seconds – when suddenly a door slammed and a voice filled the room.

"_Weapons down! Hands up!_"

Bruce whirled around in the same moment Alfred gasped, and then the scenery around him froze in unimportance.

A gun.

A gun pointed straight at _Alfred_.

The sound of pearls clattering on the hard concrete filled his mind and his brain short-circuited. Later, in the hospital, Bruce couldn't find any other explanation for his impulsive action.

Alfred. _Gun._

He was moving without conscious thought and immediately barreled into the person holding the weapon. Expertly, Batman had clasped the gun between his arm and rip cage, where layers of kevlar protected his body and added to the deadlock he was placing on it. There was a gasp and then a grunt when they hit the nearest wall, the intruder's body taking the brunt of the impact, and Bruce could feel how the one hand that still held the gun lost its grip.

Bruce stepped back quickly and wrenched it free, and the figure in front of him slumped down and landed in a sitting position... and then the crazy raven curls and the familiar PJs wormed their way through his adrenaline -induced haze.

Dick.

_Shit._

Bruce vaguely heard Alfred shouting out the same conclusion behind him; he was distracted when Dick lifted his head again and stared at him in shock. His eyes widened in a recognition of_ 'Oh, it's you'_, similar to his own, and then Dick closed his eyes again and leaned back, shoulders slacking.

"Thank _fuck_," he breathed. "Damian. Bathroom."

Bruce shot a quick look at Alfred; immediately, the old man hurried into the bathroom. He was still trying to catch up with the situation, worry and fear blurring his vision. His suit was heavy, he himself weighted around 210 pounds, and he had just barreled full force into his sick son who wasn't much heavier than Tim.

"Are you alright?" Bruce asked and crouched down, simply laying the gun next to himself on the ground, forgotten for a second in the light of more important matters.

To his immense relief, Dick opened his eyes again and smiled a lopsided smile. "What took you so long?"

Bruce was inclined to smile back, but then Alfred's voice filled the room.

"_Damian?!"_

The urgency was palpable. Bruce, who was still crouching in front of Dick, watched the colour drain from his eldest's face. They icy feeling in Bruce's chest returned, the emotional roller coaster was plummeting down again. Dick was scrambling to get up, and Bruce swiftly hooked one arm around his waist and hauled him to his feet.

Two steps separated him from the bathroom, in which he found his youngest son and Alfred. Bruce sucked in a breath. Damian was dressed in a bloody Robin costume sans mask and was leaning against the bathtub, almost in a lying position. His eyes were closed, but when Alfred softly patted his cheeks, they cracked open an inch, and Bruce allowed himself to breathe again.

"He's okay, I just drugged him," Dick's voice next to him suddenly spoke up.

Alfred and Bruce both turned around to stare at him, at which he just shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. "He was hurt when he came upstairs, and I wanted him to sleep..."

"What did you give him?!"

"Uh, a pill of my opiate.."

Alfred opened his mouth in an almost comical fashion, but Bruce just saw his 10-year-old lying helplessly on the floor and felt his nerves slowly straining apart. First Dick pulled a gun at Alfred, and now he drugged his little brother into oblivion? What the hell was going on?!

"You gave a _ten-year-old_ your chemo analgesics?!"

Dick sensed the turn in atmosphere and took an intuitive step back. "It was all I had."

Exasperated, Bruce pointed at the two men lying on the ground behind Dick. "He wouldn't have a chance against those men!"

"Well excuse me, but they didn't exactly announce themselves!"

"Master Bruce," Alfred said warningly before Bruce could answer. It was well-tried tool to remind Bruce not to get carried away in an argument with Dick. There was no time for an argument now, he reminded himself and concentrated on the larger situation.

"Master Damian will sleep the drugs off, but I need to redress that shoulder wound," Alfred went on, at the same time concentrating on Dick.

"I'm fine," his eldest sighed, rubbing a tired hand across his eyes. Bruce noticed in dismay that the hand was shaking, either thanks to the adrenaline that was pulsing through Dick's veins or thanks to exhaustion. Either way, Bruce didn't like it. "What happened?"

Dick needed to get back to bed. He was pale and shaking, and the exhaustion could be triggering a fever. Damian needed to get to the med bay. Three unconscious men were lying on the floor. Were the police on their way? Bruce didn't know if Oracle had been fast enough to stop the automatic notification to the police when the alarms in Wayne Manor were set off and none of the insiders reacted in the course of ten minutes. Tim was still alone under a lot of dangerous criminals.

"You tell us," Bruce growled gloomily. The situation at hand was a catastrophe. They needed to hide the gun with Dick's fingerprints on it; still under Bruce's conservatorship, Dick's gun license was inactive. Bruce was still in his freaking Batman costume, and all the while the thugs could wake up or the police could trod in. Hell, even _Damian_ was still in uniform. "Why is he still in his Robin uniform?"

That came out wrong, Bruce noticed immediately, too much like an accusation. Dick's brow furrowed in annoyance. "He was mad and just ran upstairs. The drugs I gave him must have worked faster than I thought."

In Bruce's opinion, Dick hadn't thought at all. He was wise enough to keep himself from saying the words out loud, especially since he knew they were hanging in the air anyway, heavy and accusing. Dick should have known the drugs were too heavy for Damian, since they kept knocking him out quickly. Of course they would have worked even faster on a child.

"Oh, just say it," Dick muttered and glared at the Batman. He had been in enough arguments with Bruce to know what was coming.

"That was irresponsible. You didn't know how Damian would react."

Dick crossed his arms ostentatiously. "If you had talked to him rather than just gotten rid of him, I wouldn't have had to drug him in the first place."

"That's not up for debate." Bruce could feel the annoyance rising at Dick's childish attics. He had already gotten an earful from Alfred after he had dismissed Robin a few hours earlier and had a bit of a guilty conscience. And Dick needed to lie down; there was no time to debate the whole evening. He needed the facts, fast, and Dick was the only witness he had.

"What did they want?"

"I don't know, how should I -"

"Did they see either of you two?"

"No, I don't think so..."

"You don't think so? Yes or no?"

If the thugs had seen them, they wouldn't have taken so long. But then again, maybe they had seen Damian in the Robin uniform and had started the argument because of that? What other reason would a group of intruders have to get into a fight at the scene of a crime?

Batman was taking over his thinking, the cowl pulling over his mind again, and Bruce was willingly falling back into the cool and calm logic.

"No..."

"What were they arguing about?"

"I don't know!"

"Weren't you listening?"

Batman's logic and the beauty of deduction had always enabled Bruce to deal with stressful situations. To him, Batman's view always resembled taking a step back from the scene, thus detaching oneself and gaining an overview. It was like standing only inches apart from the canvas of a modern painting, and only with stepping back did the planes and lines of expressive colours somehow made sense. On the negative side, though, it detached him from details that weren't part of the puzzle. He didn't notice in time how much the interrogation was freaking out Dick, who had begun to retreat unconsciously.

"I was distracted!"

"By drugging Damian? You should have paid attention."

"I'm sorry I was trying to protect Damian _and_ your secret identity!" Dick yelled suddenly, feeling pushed into defensive.

It pulled Bruce out of his musings, as the sudden change in tone and loudness disrupted his thought process. Damn. Alfred suddenly appeared next to him, trying to get between the two of them in order to stop the impending blowout.

"May I propose we all try to calm down? It has been a stressful day for all of us." By the end of the sentence, Alfred was automatically glancing down at the gun that was still lying where Bruce had left it. Bruce and Dick followed the gaze, and Alfred noticed his mistake. He began another sentence, but grew silent when Bruce started to move with a jolt. He walked towards the gun.

"Bruce, I -" Dick's voice piped up, unsure and fearful.

"Is it loaded?" Bruce was watching the weapon like in trance, and all the feelings he had repressed for Dick's sake for the past minutes started to pour through the cracks of his strained nerves.

"..Yes... I'm sorry, Bruce, I didn't see another way -"

"You pulled a loaded gun on Alfred."

A _gun_. Dick had used a loaded gun. Almost shot Alfred. Bruce shuddered inwardly at the mere thought. It was the stuff of so many of his nightmares and more; so far, it had never been _Dick_ who had pulled the trigger in those dreams.

The feelings washed over him, in all their illogicalness and violence. "You pulled a _gun_ under my roof!"

Dick stepped back even more, bringing his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry, what was I supposed to _do_?!"

Bruce was catching up to him swiftly, ignoring Alfred's voice, and was only inches away from Dick's face in the matter of nanoseconds. His finger poked into his son's skinny chest accusingly. "There is no excuse whatsoever for using a gun in this house and you know it."

Dick exploded at that, at the proximity, the accusation, the chiding tone. "I had to protect Damian!"

"By shooting Alfred?"

"I didn't know it was Alfred!" A painful flicker flew over his son's enraged features. The hurt startled Bruce, who didn't _want_ to yell at Dick. He didn't _want_ to hurt him or accuse him of an action he knew Dick never intended. But there was _this gun _lying around in his house, so close to destroying his whole life once again, that the panic just welled up in Bruce's chest and washed his self control away in steady intervals.

Just the fact that Dick even dared to carry a gun into Wayne Manor was ungraspable... and then it hit him. _He_ hadn't. The panic turned into anger and found a familiar target.

"How did you get it?"

Dick's eyes widened, and his own anger evaporated into fear. He shook his head slowly and stepped away from Bruce, now backed against the wall of his room.

"_Jason_ gave it to you, right?"

"Don't be mad at him, Bruce, he was only doing what he believed was..."

"He brought a gun into this house!" Unaware, his voice was rising.

"Only because he wanted to protect me!"

"Protect you! By giving you a lethal weapon!"

Dick's voice got louder now, too, in order to match his. "Stop! You're looking for reasons to be mad at Jay so you don't have to face your other problems!"

Bruce snapped at his now fuming son. "Do you really think _you're_ the right person to judge someone's decisions?!"

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"After tonight's actions? Drugging your little brother? Aiming at Alfred?"

Said butler suddenly yanked on his arm with surprising strength. Bruce whirled around to face him, to snap at him too for disrupting the wonderful release he had found for the whirlwind of emotions inside of him, but Alfred's expression shut him up immediately. It was a mixture of anger and worry, and with a jagged movement Alfred motioned to Dick, who was by now leaning against the wall and taking ragged, shaking breaths.

_Shit._

The argument had been too much; Dick's exhausted and weak body wasn't up to an emotionally draining shouting match in the middle of the night. _Oh, no._ Bruce hadn't meant to cause this.

"Dick, easy," he said as he hurried to him, taking in the hand that was pressed against the young man's chest. Dick nodded, eyes fixed at a distant point. He was visibly trying to calm down, to slow down his breaths, and apparently, it worked. The hand that had pressed against his ribcage now came up to press against his forehead.

"Okay?"

"..Yeah."

"You need to lie down." Bruce didn't like the shaky voice Dick had answered with at all.

Dick nodded slowly and pulled a few curls away from his forehead, drawing back the fabric of his shirt's sleeve.

Bruce's heartbeat failed for a second.

"What's that?" he asked hoarsely, staring at the colourful skin on his son's wrist.

Dick blinked at him and followed Bruce's gaze to his arm. "What?"

Bruce grabbed the arm and roughly yanked the loose sleeve up. He exposed a large bruise, yellow and violet and blue. His stomach churned at the sight. "_That_."

"It's nothing," Dick answered briskly and shoved the fabric over his arms again. He turned around to leave, but Bruce grabbed his arm once again. They both stared at each other, and Bruce saw that Dick knew exactly what Bruce was thinking about.

Bruises weren't good. Bruises were one of the early signs of a lack of thrombocytes, of an imbalance of the blood components. Of _leukemia_.

_Relapse,_ Bruce's mind repeated, and his chest turned into one giant ice block. _Relapse._

No. He wouldn't allow _that_ again.

"We need to check your blood count," he gritted out between clenched teeth. Freeze would not win.

Dick's eyes widened at the suggestion. Stubbornly, he shook his head. "No, it's nothing. It's just a bruise."

"That's not 'just a bruise'. Alfred, get the med bay ready!" There had always been the chance of relapse, of cancerous cells hiding somewhere in Dick's body and multiplying at some point. If the new bone marrow was spewing out mutated leukocytes again, they needed to act fast.

"It's probably from when you ran into me!"

Bruce turned back to examine the piece of skin. "It looks older. Did you knock into something recently?"

"I... I don't know. Yeah, probably." Dick was starting to panic now, too, breaths shortening. Bruce guessed that Dick hadn't even worked through getting sick once, or miraculously recovering, let alone dealing with the possibility of relapsing.

"Let go. It's nothing," he insisted therefore, trying to twist out of Bruce grasp.

Alfred had quickly appeared to asses the situation and was now staring at Bruce too, awaiting his orders. He was afraid as well, Bruce noticed, also not daring to pronounce the dreaded possibility.

"You're exaggerating. Let me go. _Bruce!_"

Dick was in denial, and understandably so. Bruce was hoping to be wrong as well, but knew that he couldn't take the chance. Bruce gritted his teeth and took in the situation once again, trying to regain control for all of them.

Damian was still unconscious in the bathroom and needed a doctor. There were still three unconscious men on the ground that needed to be locked away so they would never see the light of day again. And the gun still hadn't disappeared.

"Bruce, it's _not_ a relapse!"

Dick wrestled against his grip weakly, and Bruce let go as he turned away.

"Dick, hurry downstairs and take a blood sample," he ordered with Batman's voice. "Alfred, take care of Damian. I need to make sure the intruders stay asleep..."

A soft thud interrupted him mid-sentence, Alfred's flabbergasted "_Dick!_" followed. When Bruce had whirled around again, Dick had crumpled to the floor and didn't move.

Alfred and Bruce both stared at the scene, needing a moment to catch up. Then they both moved simultaneously. Routine had steadied them in the face of emergencies; it was hardly the first time Dick (or any other family member, for that matter) had passed out. Since he had been in relapse Dick had fainted a few times, especially in the very early days of his return to the Manor. Already high on adrenaline, Bruce's head started to feel light as he knelt down.

"Dick?" he coaxed as he gently pushed against Dick's shoulder. The unmoving body rolled onto its back without resistance. Dick's head lolled with the movement. He was out cold, eyes rolled back into his skull and non- responsive to any impulse.

"What happened?" Looking at Alfred, Bruce allowed some of the icy panic to show. Dick wasn't responding to his calling, and his breaths were weak. There and steady, but weak. "He was fine a second ago!"

Alfred pushed two fingers against the skin of his grandson's neck, deadly calm in the midst of mayhem. "No, he wasn't. He seemed to have trouble breathing... oh_. Bruce._"

Alarmed by his old friend's irritation, Bruce fumbled to find Dick's pulse on his own... and there it was, weak like his breathing, but steady, and.. _oh_. That was new. _Shit._

"Arrhythmia?"

Bruce nodded solemnly, biting his tongue. The heartbeat beneath his fingers was gliding out of rhythm, changing its speed or the lengths of its intervals. For an agonizing second, Bruce thought he knew the pattern, from hours on hours of watching it on a mute EKG-screen while Dick was losing to the illness surging through his veins. "We need to go to the hospital. Call Leslie."

"Bruce," Alfred stood up, uncertainly, but didn't move to the phone. "What about the rest?"

Bruce cursed inwardly. The situation had been a nightmare a few minutes ago, but now? He wanted to get Dick into a car and drive to the hospital himself, but Dick couldn't wait until he had changed and cleaned up this mess the intruders made. Dick's lips were already paling, displaying a blueish tint. Rolling him onto his side gently, Bruce forced himself to let go of the childish notion of taking care of Dick on his own. He didn't like giving control to others, but he had other things to do now.

"Call an ambulance. Give him oxygen." Bruce raised the cowl's lenses up, readying himself for the next task Batman needed to fulfill without being distracted. "I'll carry Damian down into the med bay and set things up. Then I'll get rid of those guys."

The ambulance would be here quickly. A call from Wayne Manor wasn't something that was ignored, especially not since the Wayne Foundation had just sponsored three new large-capacity ambulances.

"Call Leslie. Tell her to check for a relapse. And then I need you to take care of Damian."

Knowing Dick was in good care, Bruce marched over to the bathroom and picked up Damian, who had blissfully slept through it all. The wound on his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but definitely needed some professional attention. Bruce shifted the small boy in his arms carefully, trying to put less pressure on the wound, despite the coma-like state.

He wouldn't be that careful with the thugs, that much he was sure of.

* * *

Bruce was running.

Moving through the dark hospital, he was trying to find Leslie. Dick wasn't in the emergency room anymore as they had told him, but he didn't know where they had put him. Leslie Thomkins seemed to be with him, so at least Bruce didn't have to worry about an incompetent doctor.

The forty minutes he had had to wait for the phone call from the hospital had been terrible, even though he had anticipated it. As soon as he had carried the three thugs out of the Manor and to the Batmobile, Bruce had been counting the seconds. Ten minutes until the ambulance arrived. Five until they left again. Ten minutes back to the hospital. Five minutes admission procedure, standard tests. Alfred was busy with the police by then. As it turned out, the alarm had indeed reached Gotham's police station, which had been lacking personal – since Batman and Robin had been busy with the gang gig for the last few days, the rest of Gotham had to be taken care of by the police.

Then the phone call reached him; he was already dressed in spare clothes he had stored in the Batmobile and waited in one of the more usual cars he had placed all over the town in case of undercover emergencies. A quick SMS message to Alfred had made up the cover story: Bruce Wayne, officially on vacation in Switzerland, was indeed living the life in one of his mansions outside of Gotham, with a few select (and non-existent) guests the press would have a field day with. When the phone call came, Bruce immediately rushed to the hospital to be greeted by a very uninformed receptionist.

He had been asked to stay in the emergency waiting area, where he had stared at the clock and miserably reviewed the evening's catastrophes. There was much he didn't understand yet; the thugs were in jail now, the police owing Batman a few favours, but there wasn't time to interrogate them. Most importantly, what was wrong with Dick? Under the cover of the cowl, Bruce had been able to largely ignore the uneasiness in his chest, but as Bruce Wayne with nothing to do but waiting, the fear started to crush him.

Did he relapse? Or had he exaggerated? In hindsight, Dick might have been right; the bruise might have been from when Bruce had crashed into him. But he couldn't take chances. And the arrhythmia... was that due to leukemia? A new symptom? Or something entirely new? One of the long-term consequences cancer often carried along?

The only thing he knew was that he himself hadn't done a damn thing to help the situation. He still felt in the right about his reaction to the gun pointed at Alfred; he hadn't seen Dick from his position, and he refused to recognize a fault in protecting the butler. But Dick had taken the attack rather well. Only later, when they argued, did his breathing become irregular, his behaviour more agitated. He should have seen it. He should have known better.

Jason had appeared just in that moment of self loathing.

He was still Dick's emergency contact and had been notified right after Bruce. It had taken him a while to get from Blüdhaven back to Gotham, but here he was, walking towards Bruce with that damned boastfulness that was so typical of his wayward son.

Someone who knew him well could see the lines of distress in his face, though. Predictably, Jason didn't waste time on formalities.

"What the fuck happened?!"

He was sporting a busted lip, so one of the thugs he had stopped in Blüdhaven this night must have gotten a lucky punch. That was alarming; Jason had largely adopted Dick's Nightwing-style and went for close combat. Maybe he needed more training, but Bruce didn't know how to tell him that without sounding condescending to the sensitive vigilante who still put every word he said on the scale.

"We don't know yet," he answered instead. "He collapsed with an arrhythmic heartbeat after we got into an argument."

Jason cursed silently, running a hand through his wild hair. Bruce wasn't fazed by Jason's open display of affection for his older brother anymore, and it usually made him smile inwardly. Right now, though, he just wanted Jason to explode at him – he had promised himself he wouldn't instigate the clash that was undoubtedly coming in order to honour Dick's effort to bring them together. But that gun... No, Jason had to give some _really_ good answers to that.

"You were arguing with him? After all he's been through tonight?!"

"He almost shot Alfred."

Jason's eyes widened. Immediately, the tables had turned. Jason stepped back, achingly similar to Dick's movements that evening. The moment of shock vanished quickly, replaced by a mask of calm and confidence. Bruce had taught his sons well.

"Where did he get the gun from, Jason?"

"I gave it to him, obviously." At least there was no beating around the bush. Jason and Bruce were so used to arguing and placing the blame on each other that they fell back into their old roles easily. Bruce had a problem with Jason's gun? Big deal. Jason used them to provoke him, so denying them had never been an option.

"When?"

"During the chicken pox episode."

Bruce counted back, quickly. Two weeks. The gun had lain around in his house for _two weeks_.

"Are you out of your mind? He was feverish for days. It's a wonder nothing happened!"

"Is it?" That snarky grin appeared, the one Jason had adopted after his resurrection. "Or maybe you're just not giving us enough credit."

That again. Bruce slowly stood up and walked up to his wayward son. "How on earth can you justify what almost happened today?"

"I take it he tried to protect himself? The brat was hurt, so he probably went into mother hen mode?"

Jason didn't know the details of the evening; he was shooting at the dark. It hit Dick's reasons uncannily well, and Bruce could hardly say anything against Dick trying to protect himself.

Luckily for him, a nurse called out his name just that second.

"Mister Wayne?"

Jason and he moved apart immediately. More important matters were finally coming up.

The nurse jogged towards them. "Mister Grayson was moved to Cardio a while ago."

"A while ago?" Bruce asked, displeased. "Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"There's so much going on in the ER, right now..." The nurse shrunk back from the two tall men who were staring at her gloomily. "Doctor Thompkins arrived and took the matter into her hands."

That was good. Leslie was a reliable person; honestly, Bruce didn't know how they would have managed without her during those months of crisis.

"Has he woken up yet? Are the blood results there already?"

Next to him, Bruce could feel Jason flinch. He didn't know about the bruise.. and apparently neither did the nurse. Panicking, she just shrugged her shoulders and told them to ask the nurses and doctors at the Cardiology Unit before she hurried away.

Bruce and Jason turned to each other when she left. They were still standing close to each other, but the atmosphere between them had changed drastically.

"Blood results? You said he was arrhythmic!"

Jason was afraid, Bruce realized, and decided to drop the gun-matter.. or, to put it in better words, to postpone it for the time being.

"There was a huge bruise on his forearm and he didn't know where it was from. He collapsed after I told him he needed to check it out."

Jason opened his mouth to say something, but Bruce interrupted him before they could indulge in another game of 'who-did-the-wrong-thing-first'.

"I need you to get Tim out of there." Tim was still undercover with a faction of the gang they were chasing, and wouldn't be able to simply leave. Bruce expected Barbara to watch out for him, and he knew that Tim was perfectly capable of keeping up his appearance, but the whole thing needed to stop. Whatever had happened at the Manor and was going to happen with Dick proved that they weren't ready for long-term missions like that yet. In hindsight, they should have never started it. "The mission's over. Bail him out."

Jason looked conflicted for a second, but nodded nonetheless. He wanted to make sure Dick was alright, but the two of them had spent enough time in the hospital's various waiting areas that he knew there was nothing for him to do but go through the horror scenarios or engage in an argument. Neither was an attractive alternative right now and to be honest, Bruce himself would prefer to actually _do_ something.

"Keep me updated."

"Same here."

They nodded at each other, both knowing that the arguments weren't finished yet. Then Jason turned around and swiftly walked away, out of sight. Bruce closed his eyes to compose himself again, and then walked away in the other direction.

And now, he ran.

At Cardiology, the nurse had sent him to ICU. With a heavy heart, Bruce hurried over, slowly panicking. Emergency room, Cardiology, Intensive Care – he didn't like this order one bit. The mobile phone in his hand had only rung once, when Alfred called to quickly update him about Damian's condition. The boy was fine, the wound on his shoulder treated and the drug slowly vanishing. Barbara had sent him a few messages, but he didn't have the time to read them; if anything serious was going on, he would be flooded with calls.

When he walked into ICU, a place too well-known for his tastes, familiar faces met him. Jim Gordon was talking to one of the nurses, and Barbara had wheeled her chair a few feet further and was tapping on her tablet. Jim was still in uniform, Bruce noticed concernedly, and heard him approaching just that second.

"Bruce," he called, and Barbara looked up anxiously. "How's Dick? They won't tell us anything."

The uncooperative nurse seemed relieved to see Bruce. She shrugged her shoulders and murmured another "We can't tell you if you're not family."

Bruce nodded at Jim and Babs and turned his attention to the nurse. "I'm Bruce Wayne. How is he?"

"Stable," she smiled at him apologetically. "The docs put him on meds that keep him under. All the tests Doctor Thompkins ordered are still running. She insisted on being the first to talk to you as soon as the results are here, so I'd advice you to wait here."

Bruce cursed silently, watching as the nurse retreated. Dick had been in the hospital for more than an hour now, and there still weren't any results. It was beyond frustrating. A single green light burned over a door on the far left side of the corridor, and Bruce suspected it to be Dick's. He debated walking up there and risking being skinned alive by Leslie, who couldn't stand people interfering while she worked, or indeed sitting down as the nurse had told him to.

Jim and Barbara decided the matter when they pulled him back into the present.

"Bruce, what happened?"

They both looked genuinely concerned; Jim had laid a hand on his shoulders, and Babs had wheeled closer. Bruce forced up a small smile, but both of them knew him well enough to see right through it.

"I don't know much. There was a burglary at the Manor, and Alfred found Dick passed out on the floor. The hospital called me a while ago and I've been running around trying to find him since."

"They wheeled him in fifteen minutes ago," Barbara piped up, solemnly looking at the door under the green light that indicated that hospital staff were present there. "Doctor Thompkins was with him, and ordered a long-term EKG. We didn't hear much more."

"I'm already assigned on the job," Jim continued. "Batman dropped the thugs who broke into the house at the police station earlier. They haven't woken up so far."

"Batman? Seriously?" Bruce was too tired to act on his usual level, but he still tried to bring up some convincing surprise. Good thing he could shift bad acting onto being preoccupied with Dick's situation.

"Yes. My colleagues are questioning Alfred right now. I made sure I'm the one who'll interrogate Dick as soon as he's ready to."

Bruce couldn't allow Jim to talk to Dick before he did. They needed to make up a story.

"I doubt he'll be up for an interrogation, Jim," he said with an icy voice, glaring at the Commissioner, because... seriously. Dick might have relapsed, for all they knew. "I'm sure he doesn't need to give testimony_ right now._"

Jim sighed quietly and shrugged helplessly with his shoulders. "Normally I'd say yes, of course, but this time... Bruce, the two of you will be very busy as soon as he wakes up."

Bruce's brow furrowed. Did Jim know something he didn't?

"The media knows about everything," Barbara clarified. "Some hobby moviemaker filmed Batman climbing out of your window with the thugs in tow. And the ambulance didn't go unnoticed either – it's running non-stop on TV."

God damnit. Now Bruce really wanted to sit down. The media didn't need to be involved in this, for God's sake. They still hadn't found the culprit who had taken photos of Dick while he had been in chemo, and the media's attention was nothing Dick needed now, especially if his diagnosis wasn't good.

"Dad, maybe you should call at the station and let them know that Dick won't wake up until tomorrow."

Jim nodded and pulled out his phone, walking out of the ICU to have his conversation in quiet.

"B., there's more," Barbara predictably said. She tapped against her tablet a few times and then gave it to him, face grim.

Bruce took it, and saw a news bulletin from about forty minutes ago. A picture of the Batsymbol up in Gotham's cloudy sky was in the background as the news anchor spoke.

"_A hobby camera man might have just filmed the movie of his life,"_ the anchorwomen said, and a shaky camera sequence filled the screen. It was a bad shot of a forest scene, with a really lousy actor, probably drunk, in a Halloween werewolf costume in the middle. In the background, Bruce recognized Wayne Manor. They had been shooting in the woods surrounding the mansion. They were still part of Bruce's property, but Bruce had never cared about the amorous teenagers or film students that used the woods.

"_At about one a.m., someone broke into Wayne Manor, property of Bruce Wayne, the richest man in Gotham and probably this side of the country_," the voiceover announced. _"Garret Dinkley didn't know anything of that when he suddenly glimpsed one of Gotham's rarest creatures."_

On screen, the camera zoomed close to the Manor. Agitated voices of Dinkley and the werewolf-guy were audible, and then suddenly Batman appeared in one of the Manor's windows. Bruce sighed as he watched how he himself heaved three unconscious figures out of the window and then disappeared with them in the far side of the woods.

"There's more, keep watching," Barbara reminded him solemnly.

Indeed, after a few seconds of praise for Dinkley's bravery, the anchorwoman made a serious face again. In her background, a photo of Arkham Asylum appeared, and Bruce drew in a sharp breath. _What the –_

"_Batman's involvement in the Waynes' case is highly suspicious, considering that later that night, the supervillain Mister Freeze escaped Arkham Asylum."_

Bruce felt the ground beneath him shift as he locked eyes with Barbara. Freeze was free? He escaped the same night as someone broke into his house to look for his children?

"_After neglecting our beloved town for days, Batman chose to stop a burglary rather than a dangerous criminal from breaking free. Suspiciously, Bruce Wayne is one of the very few outspoken sympathizers of the Batman, and is already suspected by many to sponsor Batman financially. So far, no official statement by the Wayne family nor Wayne Enterprises has been given."_

The news bulletin turned towards some high-society story now, and Barbara took the device out of Bruce's icy hands. This was bad. Freeze was free, and the media would beat a path to their door now. Batman, the human interest story about Dick's illness, and Bruce's fortune would serve for so many newspaper headlines, Bruce's head swam when he thought about them. Jim had been right; the faster they managed to clarify tonight's events, the better.

Barbara grabbed his sleeve, suddenly. She had her eyes fixed on the far end of the corridor, and Bruce followed her gaze and saw Leslie coming towards them. His stomach dropped at her serious expression; now was the moment of truth.

"Leslie," he croaked, nodding towards her. Barbara pushed him towards a chair, and he willingly sat down. Leslie gave a short smile as greeting and lowered herself in the chair next to him. Barbara stayed were she was, anxious as well. It didn't even occur to Bruce to send her away. In the corner of his eye, he could also see that Jim had made his call and now hovered around a few metres away, giving them privacy.

"Dick's stable and drugged. He won't wake up until tomorrow and we don't want him to move around and mess up the long-term EKG I ordered."

"What's going on? What happened back there?" Bruce needed answers, fast.

"Okay, I have some bad news and some good news," Leslie announced, which didn't help Bruce's wrecked nerves at all. "Which one do you want to hear first?"

"Which one is connected to the leukemia?" Inwardly, Bruce wanted to close his eyes to block out the whole situation, but then Leslie smiled reassuringly.

"The good news; his blood count is fine, we checked three times. Not one single cancerous cell."

Barbara and Bruce both let go of deep breaths. A tight knot in the middle of Bruce's chest came undone. No relapse, no cancer. They could deal with everything else. Freeze, or media attention, it didn't matter as long as Dick wouldn't have to go through _that _again.

"The bad news?"

Leslie grew solemn again, and looked down at her papers. That wasn't good; Leslie always stalled for time before delivering a bad diagnosis.

"We're still waiting for some test results, but I'm pretty sure about the outcome. Bruce, has this evening been exhausting for Dick?"

It was possible she hadn't seen or heard the news yet. "Yes, very," he said therefore.

"More exhausting than anything else since he woke up?"

"Probably." So far, Dick hadn't had to face a real threat to his life, hadn't been physically attacked, or had a nasty shouting match.

Leslie wrote something down onto her clip chart. "I think Dick's suffering from cardiotoxicity."

Bruce felt the colour drain from his face. He had heard that term before, when the doctors and nurses he had bribed to force Dick through more chemotherapy had warned him about possible consequences. "What does that mean?"

Leslie sighed sadly. "Dick's heart is damaged. The evening's excitement must have triggered it."

_-tbc-_


End file.
